We’re surrounded by heroes: hospital staff, policemen, firemen and teachers, among others. But how about the people we see dangling precariously from ropes, sitting on a small wooden seat the size of postage stamp? You know the ones. They clean windows for condo dwellers and office workers everywhere.
In our Arlington condo, the building manager sent us all an email, warning that the window washers were scheduled and we might want to close our blinds “for privacy.” Forget that! I wanted to see them work, give them a friendly wave and make sure they get the splotchy “gift” from my daily visitor, nicknamed Larry Bird, off my window. That bird isn’t missing any meals!
I knew the workman was on his way when I saw several ropes, like long fuzzy spider legs, dangling outside my windows. Soon the friendly washer dropped from the sky into view. He used a saucer-sized suction cup to grab the window and anchor himself. I watched, mesmerized, as he made tight “s” curves on my window with a soapy tool. Then he used his squeegee with the same pivoting action to wipe away the soap. He was done with the first huge window in minutes.
When it was time for the next one, he jerked the rope, swung himself over and plopped the suction cup on the next pane. He looked like Tarzan of the jungle, swinging on those grape vines. He used a little extra elbow grease at the bird stain and looked to me for approval. If I were a judge, I’d have held up my “10” paddle, but since I had none, I just gave him a thumbs up. Then he disappeared from view and was on to the windows below me.
Recently a cute post on Facebook showed a clever window washer who saw little boys in one of the apartments, disappeared temporarily from view and returned wearing a Spiderman mask. One sibling got spooked and backed away from the window, but the other one loved it. That window washer is a guy I’d like to know!
These aerial artists made me remember my hard-working mom, who washed our windows every spring, as part of her spring-cleaning routine. The campaign, like any good military operation, involved careful planning and preparation, always happening after Dad removed our permanent wooden storm windows. First she’d take down the curtains readying them for their annual wash, starch and iron job—call her a beautician for curtains. Next she’d “bathe” the venetian blinds, on her knees while bent over our bathtub. NOW she was ready to put that bucketful of vinegar-laced water and plenty of rags to work. (I‘ve heard that crumpled newspapers can be used for the job, but not according to my mom. Besides, who gets a paper these days?)
After she’d set to work and the windows made that squeaky sound when rubbed, the process was reverse-engineered. She hung the sparkling blinds and her curtains, stiff as soldiers at attention, on her pristine windows, relieved, I’m sure, that the task was done for another year. Those Old School women weren’t kidding when they called it “housework.”
Nicely done!